Frozen
by Aster125
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, Frozen Heart vs. Frozen Mind: the Untold Story. Warning: this story contains slash, that is, boys that love boys, and though there is nothing explicit here, I thought I should say it just in case.


**Frozen**

_Author's note: For Meme, for her birthday. I hope you like it, my dear friend. I have always wondered how was Watson's last night as a bachelor in Baker Street and what was Sherlock's reaction to the news that John was going to marry. I never thought to write a fic because, you know, Sherlock has always been that sort of untouchable character from my childhood and I feared that if I tried to write him, I was going to do it all wrong. But then, I read your story "Stay" and it gave me the little push I needed to give it a go. So, thank you (again) because this story wouldn't be here without you._

_Warning: English is not my first language, so please, excuse me for the misspellings and errors that you may find here (and I'm sure that there are a lot of them). This story hasn't been beta-ed because I don't have a beta. And I don't have one because I usually write in my own language. But this time, I thought that Meme and her love for these boys deserved the effort =) _

_Disclaimer: Thank you, Sir Arthur, for creating them…_

* * *

"_Holmes was a man of habits, and I had become one of them"_

Dr. John H. Watson

The Adventure of the Creeping Man

It's two o'clock in the morning.

In less than six hours, I'll be dressing myself for my wedding.

And here I am, lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling with big sleepless eyes.

My bedroom at 221B Baker Street is dark, my sheets are warm and I'm exhausted because of the wedding's preparations. Still, here I am: well awake when I should be resting. It's frustrating. I suppose I should be nervous about tomorrow's ceremony, but I'm not. Everything's as is supposed to be. The church is ready, the guests are going to be well-cared for, my suit fits me perfectly, and I know my bride will be shining like the sun just for me.

No, it's not the wedding what troubles me.

It's Holmes' damned violin.

One of these days, I'm going to burn that thing. Holmes has the most infuriating habit of playing it exactly at the most unconceivable times. It's not the first night that he decides that he can't sleep and so it's the perfect moment to give the neighbours an impromptu concert. The fact that said neighbours (that is, me) just happen to be trying to sleep because they want to be fresh and well rested for tomorrow doesn't bother him at all.

Once again, he's forgetting that I'm not like him and it enrages me beyond measure. More so, considering that I have some other reasons to be angry with him. In fact, yesterday I went to bed frustrated and upset and I had trouble falling asleep and all of it was his fault.

He'll be the end of me.

I try to remember that this will be the very last time that I'll be suffering this maddening noise. Tomorrow night, I'll be in my new home, sleeping peacefully in my bride's arms. But this thought, far from comforting me, makes me angrier still.

How does he dare to disturb my rest like this?

I'm tempted to think that he does it on purpose. Probably, this is some sort of revenge or something, I can't imagine why. God only knows what's inside Holmes' unfathomable head. But yesterday afternoon, he was… odd. Well, more than usual. And now this…

Probably, he's making himself sure that I won't miss him at all when I'm gone.

Little does he know, that old fool, that I'll be missing him nevertheless. Despite myself.

I cover my head with the pillow, but it's to no use because the noise keeps grating in my ears.

Damn.

It's scraping at my nerves. I'm going to walk down the stairs any moment and throw a chair at his head. I really am not a violent person, but this noise is killing me.

This music, in the middle of the night, in my dark bedroom, reminds me more than anything that he's downstairs. More than the lingering scent of tobacco on my clothes, or the smelly smokes from his chemistry experiments. Even more than his footsteps up and down the stairs…

This is just SO Sherlock that it tears me apart. I feel like I'm going to burst in tears and scream in rage at the same time.

It's making me mad.

I told Holmes about the wedding some months ago, when Mary and I became engaged and we started the arrangements with the priest and the family on both sides. Holmes was reading The Times at the breakfast table when I told him, and he simply lifted his gaze towards me, looked at me over the paper and said:

"Oh… Congratulations, Watson".

And then resumed his reading and took a sip of his tea like I had just said that the weather looked rather good today.

He's an impossible man.

I felt disappointed because… Well, it's my wedding we're talking about, not someone else's. I know that he's kind of reserved, and I know that he's selfish and that he lives inside his own head more hours of the day than is good for his own sanity, but still…

Well, honestly, till that morning, I thought that we were friends. I thought that my life was important to him. I didn't know exactly what to expect, because Holmes is a complete mystery to me, but at least, I thought that he would have the decency to show some kind of emotion. If not sheer happiness, at least, some degree of delight or gladness or… Something! It's not like he was going to loose his dignity for that, is it? When people have friends, they usually share their joys and griefs with them, don't they? That's what normal people do.

Sherlock Holmes is not normal. All right, I knew that. But I thought he was human.

I thought he had a heart, somewhere inside that thin body of his.

I thought that I was important for him, that he felt something for me. If not love (I wouldn't presume that) at least, some kind of empathy. We've been friends, comrades, for decades, now.

This cold indifference hurt me more deeply than anything that he could have said and/or done.

After that, I felt empty and depressed. Broken.

I knew it was going to happen, sooner or later. I just knew. Some years ago, when I first realized that I was in love with Sherlock Holmes, I knew that I was going to end with my heart shattered into pieces. But I didn't know how much it was going to hurt.

The pain was unbearable.

I knew from the beginning that Holmes was very much out of my reach. Not because I'm a man or because of my personality. Holmes doesn't care about what society or the rest of the world in general consider normal and morally acceptable.

And the proof is that the violin keeps playing in the silence of the night, as if Holmes was the only living being in the world.

But that is one of his charms. One of the many little things that make him who he is: a unique person.

And that's why I love him. Because of all those things. Because he doesn't care about what people think of him. Because of his oddities, his dry sense of humour, his cynical point of view…

Because he manages to look gorgeous even when he returns back home after a long walk with his shoes and pants caked with mud and his hair all wind tousled and wild…

Because of his rare smiles. I would never dare to actually tell him, but he looks younger when he smiles. And when he laughs, his dark eyes shine as if they were full of stars…

The problem with Sherlock Holmes is that he's brilliant and he knows it. I think that he's in love with himself and he will never be able to love anybody else. So, knowing that I was looking too far and too high, I made a truce with myself. I know I will always love Sherlock. But he will never know.

I couldn't stand the pity in his eyes if I told him… Or worse still, that cold indifference again. I would kill me.

So when I met Mary Morstan, I started to date her without hesitation. Yes, I started a relationship with a woman. Loving someone else fiercely, I ran head first into another's arms. I know it must sound unfair because some people might think that I'm not being honest with Mary nor myself.

The truth is I don't care. Mary is a good woman. She's strong. She loves me tenderly and she understands. Yes, I think that she knows about my feelings for Holmes. I never told her, though. She probably guessed them during our first dates, when I talked about Holmes for hours, and she listened patiently. She has never said a word about it either. But I don't need a lecture to know that she knows and she understands.

It was a surprise to me when she told me that she wanted to marry me. I thought that, after discovering my feelings for Holmes, she would run away from me. Yet, there she was, talking about a wedding, and babies… She caressed my cheek and told me that I needed to get away from Holmes. She said that I needed to be loved and that I deserved it and that she was willing to take care of me if I would accept her.

How could I say her no?

I remember being nervous before telling Holmes, asking myself if I should leave him. I must confess that some part of me was hoping for a sort of declaration from him. Perhaps my decision to marry Mary was going to make him realize that he cared for me. What if he shared my feelings? What if he didn't want me to go?

Well, I would have stayed, that's for sure. Just one word from Sherlock and I would have cancelled all the preparations, I know that. And Mary knows too.

And what did I get? "Congratulations, Watson"? Bah.

Sherlock Holmes is made of ice and steel.

And Mary is right. I need to get away from him. My own feelings are hurting me too much. And he doesn't even realize it.

I feel somewhat pathetic, sometimes.

But one can't choose who one falls in love with.

Anyway, that's why I went on with the wedding's preparations. I never told Holmes anything about my personal life anymore. I know when I'm not wanted.

And Holmes never asked.

Yesterday, I had to tell him something, though. I didn't want to. But… Well, it would have been rude to go away in the morning without telling him that I was leaving forever, wouldn't it? Holmes may be made of ice and steel, but I'm not. In fact, I'm not anything like him. And I'm proud of it, because I like who I am. So, I told him.

I waited for him at tea-time. He had been out all day. He's very busy now with a new case and he's usually off for hours, forgetting to eat and drink and sleep, as always. I told him some time ago, that his own mind would be the death of the rest of him someday. And he just smiled and said:

"I'm lucky to have a Doctor by my side, then".

He's an old fool…

And he's playing the violin like a possessed thing. Only God knows what kind of feelings he's turning into music now. When he plays like this, the notes don't flow easily and calmly. He hits the cords with the arch and fingers and the sounds are violent, shrill, discordant…

Passionate.

I think that this is the only moment that he allows himself to feel. Holmes doesn't like having feelings. That's why he doesn't know how to handle them. And that's why he puts them into music, as it is the only way that he allows himself for his true emotions to be felt and expressed.

One could say that this music playing in the silence, in the dead of night, is who Sherlock Holmes really is. This is the real Sherlock, the person, the man, the human being that feels and hurts. Not the machine that walks and talks and is in love with his own brain.

I wonder if he knows it.

Probably he doesn't.

If he knew, he would be ashamed and would have burnt the violin years ago.

Thank God he doesn't know, then. Because the violin is the only available way for the real Sherlock to really live. Without it, without the comfort of the music, he would have died within himself.

I feel sad for him. I know I should feel outraged because yesterday he treated me with the same coldness that the first time I talked about the wedding. And I'm still angry, in a way. I mean, it's still not fair that he treats me like that, as if we were only acquaintances and not real friends.

It still hurts.

But who knows why does he do it?

Who knows what's in his heart?

Because I know that he has one. Inside the ice and steel, deep inside maybe, but it's there. I've seen it in his eyes sometimes. I've heard it in his voice, felt it in the touch of his hand…

His heart is where this music comes from.

And it must be a really tormented one, by the sounds of it…

Now I'm starting to get a bit worried.

What might be troubling him?

Whatever it is, I'm certain that it doesn't have anything to do with me. I just know it.

It must be the case he's working on. He must be stuck somewhere and he's frustrated because he's not solving it as quickly as he expected.

He usually expects too much of himself. To say the truth, he usually aims for perfection. And we're talking about Sherlock Holmes here, so, saying perfection is saying something. Yet, he always manages it, somehow.

He's amazing.

The music stops short and I blink in the dark, feeling confused and suddenly deaf. I don't feel surprised, yet. Sherlock usually ends his concerts the same way that he starts them: suddenly.

I wonder what has caught his attention now…

Well, let him be, John. You have at least the blessed silence that you needed. Close your eyes and go to sleep, now.

I shift in my bed, close my eyes…

Yesterday afternoon was odd, even for Holmes. I had been waiting for him all day, wondering how I was going to break the news on him and when. Finally, he came back home at tea-time and went straight for the laden table saying:

"Good afternoon, Watson. I'm famished."

He started to gulp down a toast and a cup of scalding tea and I sighed:

"You haven't eaten anything today."

"No", he said, with his mouth full. Lifted a long finger, "But I've made some progress. I think I'm on the right scent now. All I have to do is waiting for tomorrow and we will see."

"Well…" I was starting to feel nervous again, and I wanted to get this over as soon as possible. I leaned back on my chair and answered: "I'm afraid that you'll be the only one of us who will be seeing something tomorrow morning, my friend."

"How is that?" he asked "Are you planning to become blind or something, Doctor?"

"Of course not" I said with a little smile and I didn't know what to say next, so I cleared my throat and waited. Sherlock raised an eyebrow:

"What is it, then?" he said.

"I… Well, Holmes, it's the wedding. It's tomorrow."

He looked confused.

"And…?

"This will be my last night here", I added, feeling sad and miserable while I was saying it.

He answered:

"And this is important because…"

I shrugged.

"I thought you should know".

He straightened his back, drank his tea and said, without looking me in the eye:

"Oh, that's very thoughtful of you, John. Thank you. But I already knew."

I looked at him and gaped:

"How?... I mean, it's not a secret, but you've been out for most of the day these days, and I haven't told you anything…"

"My dear Watson, the answer is just elementary. You've been increasingly worried and fussy these days. I suppose that's what one gets for becoming engaged, though I really don't want to enjoy the experience myself if you ask me." He wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood:

"Well, have a nice day tomorrow, then. I'll be seeing you again soon, I hope."

I was shocked. He sounded joyful like the man who has no worries on his mind. He never offered to help me dress or asked if he may come or if I already had witnesses…

I felt that my wedding was an absolutely irrelevant matter to him.

I was speechless, but it seemed that he wasn't waiting for an answer because he strode for the door saying:

"I must go now. I need to see to some things. Good bye, Watson."

I suddenly bolted up:

"Wait! You mean you're going out again? But you've just arrived!"

"I must", was all he said.

"But, when will you return?"

He shrugged his shoulders:

"I can't possibly know."

"But… this is my last night. I was hoping we could spend the afternoon together and have a little chat. I haven't told you about the wedding and… And you haven't told me anything about this new case yet."

I was sounding pitifully desperate, I know, but his cold detachment was breaking me and I felt like dying inside.

"We can talk another day." He said, putting on his raincoat again, "Maybe next week? You can come for a visit on Friday afternoon… See you soon, Doctor."

And he was gone.

I stood there for some minutes trying my best not to break down and cry.

Again.

This man is really made of ice. I can't understand him. He's impossible.

He's been out for hours. I was already in bed when I heard the front door crack open and his footsteps up the stairs. What time was it? Twelve o'clock, I think. I drifted off to sleep, then, until two in the morning, when the music started.

It must be half past three now.

And I'm starting to nod again when I hear a knock at the bedroom door and a voice on the other side, soft but demanding:

"Watson."

I sit on the bed, blinking and willing the sleep out of my muddled head. I hear another knock, and the voice becomes more serious:

"Come on, John. I know you're awake."

Of course I am. What does he want now? Does he want to know if I enjoyed the concert?

I shake my head and get up. It takes me a second to light the lamp on the bedside table. I hear the shifting of feet on the other side of the door while I wrap myself in a robe. I shudder. The room is cold.

As cold as are Sherlock's eyes when I open the door and look at him. I try to hide a yawn behind my hand.

"What is it?"

He looks very serious.

"May I come in?"

I nod and I let him in. He's still on his yesterday's clothes; he hasn't changed for the night. I think that he probably needs to talk about his case. Sometimes, it helps him to hear himself talk about his discoveries and to rationalize them out loud. And he usually doesn't bother to take the effort to look at the clock before calling me.

I'm really not in the mood tonight, but… Again, I'm not like him. I can't yell him "no", close the door on his face and go to sleep.

I let out a long sigh. I feel lucky that this is my very last night here.

"Well?" I say, closing the door again.

Holmes looks at me up and down saying:

"You need to put on some clothes, Doctor. We're going out."

What? Now? At this hour? Is this a joke?

I cross my arms over my chest and say:

"I'm afraid not, Holmes."

He arches an eyebrow.

"No? As you wish, then. But I warn you that it's really cold outside."

"No. I warn _**you**_. I'm not going anywhere. Not tonight, nor any other night. Things have changed, Holmes, and it's not my problem if you don't want to see them. I'm not your obedient little puppy anymore."

Holmes looks confused.

"What are you talking about, John? I just want to show you something. Why are you being so defensive?"

"Why do you need to show me something in the middle of the night?" I ask, sceptically.

He shrugs.

"Why not?"

All right, now I'm really furious:

"Why not? Because tomorrow morning I'll be marrying Mary, that's why. And I should be resting and not having this crazy excuse for a conversation with you at half past three in the morning. If you have some work to do or you want to go for a midnight walk, you're free to do it. **Alone**. We're not partners anymore and from now on my life and what happens to it is none of your business. And now, please, let me rest, Holmes. It's enough."

I show him the door, but he doesn't make a move. He looks me in the eye and says quietly:

"So, this is how it's going to be, isn't it?"

I frown.

"What do you mean?"

"You'll be married tomorrow and from this moment you're going to live for your wife and forget all we've been through together." He snaps his fingers, "Just like that." His gaze is cold and guarded when he adds: "I thought you were different, John."

"And I thought you were human!" I say, acidly, "Do you mind what I am at all? Do you mind what I think? Or do you really think that you are the only one who can think here? I thought we were friends! I thought that you cared for me!"

"And I do."

"Oh, yes, you do. You care for your retarded little friend who goes behind you as a shadow here and there. You care for that idiot who listens to your brilliant ideas for hours and helps you taking care of yourself when you forget that you have a body as well as a brain. You don't care about me, Holmes. You care about yourself. You're insane and vain, and you enjoy watching your stupid partner trying to follow your reasoning and failing at it. You enjoy watching how far away we are from each other. You need me to remind yourself that you are above all mortals and feed your vanity with it. But you don't care about me because you can't. You're frozen inside."

Holmes shakes his head.

"You're making no sense at all, Watson."

"Probably not. Because I'm talking about feelings and you have none. Now, if you'll please excuse yourself and let me rest…"

I wave a hand at the door again, but Holmes shows no intention of leaving. He puts his hands in his pockets and tilts his head to one side.

"It's the woman, isn't it? What's her name?"

I let out a humourless laugh.

"You don't even know her name" I shake my head, "I can't believe it."

"I don't know her name because I don't care about her. I care about you, John. And she has changed you."

"If you care about me, you're supposed to care about my life too. And tomorrow she'll be my wife. She'll be a part of me. You can't just ignore her, Holmes. She's my everything!"

Sherlock frowns.

"Is she?"

"Of course she is!" I say firmly, "How can you ask?"

"Because I think she's not", he says, his voice quiet but stern.

I give my head another shake.

"Sherlock, that's enough. Mary's my bride, and I love her. And you have no right…"

"Love?" he smiles, an ironic little curl of his lips. "Do you think that you know what love is?"

I can't believe we're having this conversation. I correct myself. I can't believe that I have just heard Holmes asking this question. But I'm still angry, so I ask with all the poison that I'm able to right now:

"Do _you_?"

"In fact, I do", he says, perfectly calm and sober.

I laugh at him.

"How can you say that to my face? You? You know nothing about love, my friend. You would watch me leaving with that cold face of yours. You never asked about my life, about my bride, about the wedding. If you love someone, Holmes, I'm sure it is your own selfish and vain Self."

I'm surprised to see that he smiles condescendingly.

"You're quite an emotional man, John. But I disagree with you. As a matter of fact, I'm here tonight because I love you."

I can't believe it. Holmes hasn't just said what I have just heard, has he? It can't be. It's impossible. We're talking about different things. This man isn't Sherlock Holmes. Something's very wrong here.

"What?"

My voice has become suddenly nothing more than a creaky whisper, my lips are dry and I can't breathe properly. I fight to keep a blank face as Sherlock repeats:

"I'm here because I love you. I know that you don't love that woman and I want you to see something before you make the greatest mistake of your life. You're a great man, John. You don't deserve it."

"What if I want to do it? What if it's my only choice?" I ask weakly.

"You don't and it isn't."

"But… You could have shown me before… whatever it is! I told you about the wedding months ago! You should have told me then! Why? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I didn't know." He begins to pace around the room, as he usually does while he's thinking out loud or explaining something, "I thought it was what you wanted. I've put the pieces together quite slowly, I agree. In fact, it was this very afternoon when I finally found the last piece of the puzzle. And when I saw it all, I… I panicked, all right? I've been thinking about possibilities since then, arguing with myself. Finally, I decided to show you…"

"Show me what?"

I don't care anymore if I sound desperate. I just need to know.

Holmes stops his pacing and looks me in the eye again.

"I can't describe it. You have to see it for yourself."

I sigh.

"Holmes, please. It's late. I'm tired. I'm not in the mood for riddles and mysteries. And I'm not sure if I know what we're talking about."

He comes closer. He has a kind look in his dark eyes and he puts a warm hand on my shoulder.

"Don't worry, my friend. I'll explain it all when the time comes. Please, come with me now. Trust me one more time. I assure you that it'll be worth it."

I don't know what to think. But the words "because I love you" are still ringing in my shocked ears. I nod.

"All right. Give me a moment to put on some clothes."

He nods too, squeezes my shoulder briefly and leaves without a word.

Five minutes later, we're on the street, walking at a quick pace. It's cold and foggy, and everything is dark. The only sounds are those of our own footsteps on the pavement.

Where are we going?

I'm half asleep and confused, so I don't pay attention to the name of the streets. I walk beside Holmes with my hands in my pockets and my head bent down. It seems to me that it's been hours since we left home, but probably it's been no more than fifteen minutes when we stop at the door of a high building. Holmes knocks, talks quietly with an unpleasant voiced man, and we are allowed to go inside.

It's very dark. The man gives Holmes a lamp and disappears behind a door. Holmes starts walking upstairs and I follow.

It's a long stair, so I'm breathless when we finally reach de top.

A gust of cold and moist air hits my face. I look up.

We're on the roof of the high building. It must be one of the highest of the city. The houses are spread below our feet, shrouded in mist. I can see the Tower rising in a sky full of stars. I can even see a glimpse of the Thames glistening under the half moon.

I look at Holmes with a confused frown.

"What's this?"

"This is what I wanted to show you" he says. He puts his arm over my shoulders and turns me to the city. "What do you see?" he asks quietly.

His breath is warm in my ear and his arm is gentle. I shudder.

"London" I say. It's not the most intelligent answer of the world, I know, but what did he expect?

"Do you know what I see?" Holmes asks, holding me against his lean body.

I shake my head and confess:

"I can't imagine"

Holmes whispers in my ear:

"I see freedom"

I blink. It would have never occurred to me to see freedom on the top of a roof. But then, this is Holmes. He always sees more. That's the main difference between us. That's why he's brilliant and I'm not.

"I don't understand" I say.

Holmes leans his head on mine, holds me tight.

"You need me, John. You do need me to show you the abstractions of this world, the things that are hidden for most people. And… And I need you to show me that what lies beneath freedom…" He shakes his other hand towards the landscape, "sometimes is London. Just plain old London."

There's a touch of humour in his voice. I laugh and rest my head on his.

"I suppose you're right"

He nods and for a few moments, we watch the sleeping city together.

"You said that you love Mary", says Holmes, his voice calm and serious as before.

"I thought you didn't know her name" I say with a smile.

"Let's say that I'd rather forget it because human brain has a limited amount of space. And I'd rather don't waist any of it with that woman's name." He leans on me a bit, his voice like a soft murmur, his nose caressing my cheek "But you said that you love her"

"I do" I say.

"Then, I'll ask you, John, to please close your eyes"

"Why? Is this another of your riddles?"

He gives my shoulders a gentle push.

"Please" it's all he says.

I do as I'm bid and I feel his breath on my ear again.

"Now tell me, my dear John, who do you see?"

I feel a soft touch on my lips, a feather like kiss, warm and moist, and I nearly jump out of my skin, with a whimper.

My heart races in my chest and my eyes open themselves in astonishment. I look up at Holmes. His face is so near mine that I can see it clearly, despite the darkness of the night. His pale skin glows in the moonlight, the wind plays with his hair and his eyes are shining.

I love him so much.

"Did you see her, John?" he asks.

His voice is so quiet that I feel it on my nose, rather than hearing it with my ears.

I shake my head slowly, feeling bewildered.

"Who did you see?" he says.

"You" I answer "Only you. Forever you."

I can't help myself. I cradle his face between my hands and I kiss him hard on his mouth. His lips are soft, and warm, and pliant…

And he's kissing me back.

Oh, Lord, he's kissing me back.

And to think…

That I believed that he had a frozen heart, and all the while it was me who couldn't see what was already there…

Who was the frozen one here?

_END_

_(Yeeeeshh, I know Sherlock is slightly out of character here, but hey, girls, let's accept it: we all wanted to see this kiss, and we all wanted to hear him say those cutie things to the Doctor, don't we? And John wanted it too ^-^)_


End file.
